


Too Far From The Floor

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Hook-Up, Incompatible Sexuality, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4390733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt remembers the first time Blaine kissed Rachel. He was drunk then, as well. The thing is, they're not fifteen anymore...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Far From The Floor

Kurt remembers the first time Blaine got drunk and kissed someone who wasn’t him. They weren’t even dating. It wasn’t even a thought in Blaine’s head that they ever might, not then. They were 15, at a party in the depths of Rachel’s basement, and Blaine had got drunk on wine coolers and whatever Puck had broken out of her dads’ liquor cabinet. Kurt remembers spending the night making cow eyes at him as Blaine danced. Reluctant as he’d been to admit it, even he felt the snap of chemistry when Blaine and Rachel sang together, and then Rachel leaned on her microphone and yelled – or slurred – “Spin the bottle! Let’s play spin the bottle!”

On one unlucky spin of the bottle (“Alright, Blaine Warbler, I’m going to rock your world.”), Kurt watched as the boy of his dreams pressed his beautiful mouth to Rachel’s lipgloss lips, and felt his heart simultaneously gallop and plummet at the look on Blaine’s face when he pulled away. “You taste like pink,” Rachel said, and Blaine smiled dopily, like it made perfect sense. Kurt remembered kissing Brittany, and it had been okay, nice even, but that was all, and if Blaine tasted like pink then he wanted it for himself. He wanted Blaine to see him like that, and it felt like a blade between his ribs that he didn’t. He’d nursed that wound for days, had said things he half meant, and upset Blaine in the process. (“I’d say ‘bye’, but I wouldn’t want to offend you.” Blaine was sassy when he was angry, or hurt. Kurt added it to his mental list of Reasons To Love Blaine Anderson.)

Of course, the Rachelgate Debacle of 2011 ended exactly as Kurt knew it would. Blaine was gay, and Rachel was ecstatic in her own slightly manic way, because she’d “had a relationship with a man who turned out to be gay,” and it was, apparently, songwriting gold. Kurt went back to doodling Blaine’s name in his notebooks surrounded by hearts, and tried not to pin his hopes on Blaine ever seeing him as anything more than a friend.

When Blaine had finally kissed him, it didn’t taste like pink. Pink, by comparison, was Brittany and root beer and the faint trace of foundation and lipgloss. Blaine wasn’t any of those things, and it had been better than anything Kurt had dreamed of, and then it happened again, and then he forgot about Rachel and the world and let himself drown in the impossible depths of Blaine’s affection.

That was then. This is now, and they’re not 15 anymore. Once they navigate the stumbling block of Blaine’s need for physical affirmation, it’s easier a much easier journey to accommodate the fact that he is a tactile drunk.

Their first eighteen months, when they were technically living apart but Blaine spent most of his time at the loft anyway, had been spent learning one another’s quirks. Blaine is meticulous about his clothes and his bow ties, but doesn’t put his razor away if he doesn’t have to. Kurt is fussy about his shoes, but doesn’t clear up after himself when he bakes, which he does a lot of when he’s stressed. Blaine is snippy when he’s under pressure, and Kurt will pick fights over nothing when he’s tired, and neither of them have much respect for the coat rail, which leaves Santana hissing at them in silent but apoplectic rage when she has to move their jackets from her seat so she can watch her soaps in the evening.

What also comes out of those eighteen months is that, when he’s tipsy and teetering on the edge of drunk, Blaine likes nothing so much as lying on the couch with his head in Santana’s lap, her fingers brushing his eyebrows and hair, picking the strands apart one at a time as she massages his scalp. Kurt doesn’t know what they talk about in their hushed voices, and sometimes he thinks they don’t really talk at all, but Blaine likes the soothing sounds she makes when it’s late and he’s not quite drunk enough to fall asleep. It’s sweet. It’s okay. Kurt likes that Blaine has carved places of safety and comfort for himself in the hurry of his new life. Santana has always had a soft place in her heart for Blaine, after all.

When they have their impromptu loft parties, Blaine will inevitably end up with the girls, with Dani’s guitar in his lap irrespective of the fact he doesn’t know how to play it, picking out fumbled chords with her help until they give up and she plays whilst he sings. Kurt nurses his drinks, and talks to Sam, and finds them both drifting into silence as Blaine works his magic. “He’s kind of special,” Sam says, and Kurt nods and presses his lips into a line, unsure of his own voice when his body is brimming with love.

When he’s drunk, though, Blaine still gravitates towards Rachel, who does nothing to dissuade him. They sit side by side at the piano, Blaine’s long fingers picking out tunes as Rachel sings with him, both of their smiles huge and bright, Blaine’s eyes shining with love and admiration. When they run out of tunes, they move to the couch, and sit side by side, Rachel leaning into the inviting warmth and amber smell of Blaine’s cologne. Blaine’s hands are gentle when he twists and plaits her hair, coiling it into artistic loops behind her head before dropping it and brushing it through and starting again. He’s reverent with her, and she with him, as if they’re mutually aware of the fragility they share.

When the loft empties, Santana back to Dani’s, their friends returning home, Rachel pulls her hair aside and asks Blaine for help with her zipper. “I’m going to have a bath,” she announces, and Kurt nods from his vantage point in the kitchen, raises his glass.

“Godspeed,” he says in response, and she smiles brightly. Blaine pads on bare feet into the kitchen and wraps his arms around Kurt waist, pushes his face into the crook of Kurt’s neck and hums. “Hey,” Kurt whispers, for his ears only, and puts his glass down to hug Blaine back. “What’s this?”

“Mm, nothing. I love you,” Blaine responds, and kisses his throat before pulling back to meet his eyes. “Sit with me? Let’s just sit and listen to the music. Or maybe there’s Say Yes To The Dress on somewhere, or late night infomercials. Just sit with me.” Kurt, who has lost - or maybe never really had - the ability to say no to Blaine, finds himself dragged willingly to sit curled into one small corner of the couch, surfing channels as Blaine curls himself koala-like into the side of his ribs.

It’s Christmastime, the first time Blaine kisses his jaw, his breath smelling of the eggnog Santana spiked , and says he thinks girls are nice. Kurt’s hand stops on his ribs, squeezing slightly too hard, forcing a noise of protest from Blaine’s rum scented mouth. “Sorry,” he says, and lets him go entirely. Blaine pushes himself upright and draws his eyebrows down into a frown, his mouth a little moue of displeasure. Kurt doesn’t really know what to say, and Blaine just looks at him with all the trust in the world, as if he hasn’t just rocked it on its axis with four small words.

“I don’t – what do you mean, ‘girls are nice’?”

“They smell pretty,” Blaine says, voice soft and smile endearing, “And her hair is pretty. I like her hair. And her smile. I like your smile, but her smile is like starlight, it’s all dazzling and bright around the edges, like it just lights up rooms, and her skin is so soft and…” He breaks off and grins and gestures his chest. “Boobs, Kurt! Don’t you ever just think about what they’d be like to rest your head against? I think sometimes I’d just – it’d be good?”

“Who are you – are you talking about Santana?”

Blaine manages to look affronted and amused at the same time when he wrinkles his nose and tucks his chin in, “Santana?”

“You’re the one who spends hours on the couch talking to her!”

“We talk about Rachel!” Blaine laughs and leans back in to catch Kurt’s mouth with his own, and Kurt kisses him back quickly before pulling away again.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, and then, “You should come sleep it off, too.”

That’s that. There’s no conversation so much as there’s Blaine pouring his heart out, as he does when he’s soft and pliable, but the words lodge in Kurt’s brain and in his heart and between his ribs, and he wonders, if this is something Blaine wants or needs, if it’s something he could do, if Rachel were amenable.

They’re well into January before it comes up again. They go out together, IDs checked and secured safely in their wallets, their amalgamated tips divided evenly between them. Kurt sits with Santana at the bar while Blaine dances with Rachel, his hands large on her spine as her hips sway in easy time with his, and for the first time it isn’t jealousy that spears hot and dark in Kurt’s gut. It’s lust. Santana smirks into her glass beside him and nods knowingly. “Yeah,” she says, “I know that feeling.” Kurt doesn’t comment, only sucks the last of his drink through his straw and orders another from the barman. Santana puts her empty glass down next to his elbow, umbrella spinning uselessly around the rim. He orders one for her as well, and she draws half of it into her mouth before spinning back to watch Blaine and Rachel dance.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not dancing,” she says eventually, and Kurt can feel the blood that floods his face and surges lower. Blaine’s hands on Rachel’s body make him hungry and possessive, and he wants. He wants everything, really, but specifically he wants to march out there and claim them both in a way he knows is neither healthy nor honourable. He can feel Santana’s eyes on him, feel the curve of her lips and the knowing incline of her head, and he hands her his glass.

“Wanky,” she declares, impressed, as he slides off of his stool and heads into the crowd.

He has time to think, as they head home, Blaine pliant and loose and swaying in time with the train, Rachel prim but present on a seat in front of him, and the thoughts he has are that this feeling in his stomach and his bones and in the air he’s breathing too shallow to be right, is that it’s odd. Rachel is his friend. He’s seen her, over the years, in various states of undress and sobriety. He’s seen her sick, and he’s seen her when she first wakes up, oddly alert but sleep puffy all the same. He’s watched her take her ice facials, make her bizarre detox smoothies, and he’s helped her learn how to flambé without setting off the smoke alarms. He’s sat with her while she cried about Finn, and he was with her when the Brody thing finished, and never once has the idea of kissing her crossed his mind. He loves her like family, and doesn’t want to ever be without her, but that’s all she is. With Blaine here, though, and with his desires firmly wound up in his own, everything feels more real and urgent, if still strangely dissonant.

They stand staring at one another, a triangle of intersecting emotions on the lounge rug, none of them quite able to make the first move. Blaine holds one of Rachel’s hands in his, and her fingers curl loose in his palm. Kurt exhales a shaky breath. “Vodka in the kitchen,” he says, and Rachel’s eyes meet his.

“Cranberry in the refrigerator,” she offers.

Kurt can feel his palms sweating as he gathers glasses and alcohol from the kitchen, puts them on the table in the lounge, and then stops, only opens the vodka and swallows it neat. It burns its way down his throat, but that’s okay. That’s better than okay. Blaine smiles warmly and Kurt feels it again, the low pulse of want that throbs through him.

Kissing Blaine is easy and familiar. Kissing Rachel is a barrage of new information that confuses his brain. In the end, he stops thinking and only watches as Blaine loses himself in Rachel instead, runs his hands around Blaine’s waist and into the front of his jeans, pressing close behind him to whisper all the things he’d do to him in his ear. Trapped between them, between Rachel’s hand on Kurt’s wrist, between Kurt’s tongue over his pulse, Rachel’s tongue licking into his mouth, Blaine is reduced rapidly to a redundant mess of emotion and desire that has him half sinking to his knees with only Kurt holding him upright.

Kurt says he sleeps like the dead, after, every time. Rachel nods and tilts her head, gestures to their partition wall. “We should get him to bed,” she says.

“Stay with us,” Kurt offers, not sure of where the impulse comes from but sure of the words all the same.

“Okay,” she nods.

She’s gentle with Blaine as they strip him of his clothes, him just conscious enough to be a hindrance rather than a help, his fingers alcohol numb and his body sex slack. She heads back to her own room to change into her pyjamas and to brush her hair through before tying it up for the night, and comes back to find Kurt sitting on his and Blaine’s bed, working his fingers through Blaine’s hair gently. “He usually tries to wash it out before he sleeps,” he says gently. “Give himself time in the morning to do it again properly.”

“It’s a weekend,” she says. Kurt hums and his smile is all for Blaine, but the love in it warms her anyway.

Blaine flushes hot in his sleep, and the bed isn’t really big enough for all of them. Kurt wraps his arm around Blaine’s waist and presses flush against his spine. Still half awake in the early hours of the morning, he smiles to himself when Blaine pushes his nose into soft curve of Rachel’s chest and sighs contentment in his sleep.


End file.
